


Put Your Lips On Me And I Can Live Underwater

by Miss_L



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Fusco is his usual fussy grumbly bear self, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Reese is a booby, Spoilers for 5x13, there shall be smut eventually, when Reese stops bleeding from various places
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-07-19 06:04:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7348078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miss_L/pseuds/Miss_L
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fusco can't stop looking for Reese, but it's Reese who finds him - and just in time, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Underwater" by MIKA - I found that song very fitting to write Rusco to.  
> Also, as you can imagine, I'm strongly against John no longer being there. Period.

Two months had gone by since D-Day, and all Fusco had to show for it was an unsigned card from a village in Italy named _Corvo._ Lionel knew enough Italian to translate that to “crow”, which at least gave him some peace of mind about Harold’s whereabouts. Shaw checked in now and again, keeping him updated on the numbers. They had decided that it would be best if Fusco kept his day-job in Homicide, but after 58 days of murders gone up 500% and new old bodies being discovered every day (Fusco was starting to wonder whether New York’s sewers were resembling Paris catacombs at this point – _what? He read books),_ still no luck locating even the smallest scrap of the Man or his Suit. 

_Shaw is right, no news is good news,_ he kept telling himself, but in the deepest of the night, when monsters under the bed seem the scariest, Lionel allowed his despair to crush onto him in waves of burning lava, obliterating Detective Fusco, purging him of his sins, his pain, his misery, making him brand-new for the next day. 

But while the cop could deal with the ache of missing his friend – his partner – the uncertainty of Reese’s fate was enough to make him very itchy indeed. So he went digging. Well, first he tried to shout at every single surveillance camera in sight, but clearly, Her Majesty was no longer interested in helping their little outfit. 

Fusco’s almost-healed gut ached, in a “this is a very bad situation”-way. He noticed a shadow on the other side of the dimly lit street, then heard soft foot-steps behind him. His hand automatically moved to the Glock at his side, but he knew it was useless. The men were either mob or surviving Samaritan-operatives. Either way, they would be highly-trained killers and Lionel… He suddenly felt very, very tired. He spared a thought to Lee, who would probably be the only person in the world who would miss him. Well, maybe Glasses and Looney Tunes, too. But what did it matter anymore? They had won, hadn’t they? He had always known he was living on borrowed time, and now that John was no longer there to remind him why he wasn’t 6-feet-under already, he figured it was as good a moment as any to retire. 

Of course, Fusco being Fusco, there was no way he would go down quietly. He took his hand off his side-arm and turned around to face his assailants. There were indeed two of them, the one from the other side circling back like a vulture, making escape impossible. The detective tilted his chin up and sized the thugs up with a frown, smacking his lips thoughtfully. Their posture was too rigid - _drilled_ \- to belong to the mafia. Too bad, Fusco had rather not died by what little there was left of Samaritan’s hand. But then, it had never been his choice to make. There was no talking. Two guns were silently pointed at Lionel’s head, safety taken off in sync.

“D’you know what I particularly like about this situation?” Fusco wasn’t looking at either of his executioners, and he wasn’t entirely sure whether he was really talking to them, either. He kept his eyes trained on the single surveillance camera in the street, not even sure it was plugged into anything. But it was soothing, somehow, to pretend that someone was watching. That someone – or something – might care about what happened to Detective Lionel Fusco. If this was his last breath, then he would take it proudly.

The men lowered their guns incrementally, shoulders still rigid and knees still bent to spring in action - once he had ended his final speech. Otherwise, they stayed still, their facial expressions obscured by the night. The cop didn’t care. 

“Samaritan is dead, and yet they still send two guys to do me in. You’d think they’re scared of good ol’ Fusco,” he quips and smirks. Perhaps he has just imagined it, but the little light on the camera blinks, once, then goes dark again. The gargoyles flanking him move suddenly, but before Lionel can even consider closing his eyes against the fear bubbling in his chest, two loud hisses resonate though the alley, reducing his executioners to silent heaps on the ground. Small trickles of red seep from their heads onto the pavement, intermingling at Fusco’s feet. Shock and relief flood his system, then belated alarm as he tries to find out where the shots came from. 

A figure appears to his right, seemingly out of nowhere, but even in the dark (and boy, has his sight gotten worse with age!), he recognises his rescuer. Something stronger than relief is rising to the surface of Lionel’s tortured gut now, a joy that is threatening to utter itself in some undignified sounds if he doesn’t immediately take action. So he does. He walks over to there John is standing, making him almost falls back with the force of one of his trademark bear-hugs, but the taller man manages to stay upright and even huffs a fond laugh into Fusco’s curly hair. Then the detective pulls back: the moment is gone and anger takes over.

“Where the _fuck_ have you been, Wonderboy?” Fusco spits into Reese’s face. Despite his best intentions, a modicum of worry mingles with the bile.

“Yeah,” John answers amused. “I love you too…” He coughs and sways lightly on his feet. The movement causes the light of a distant street lamp to brush his face and boy, does he look like _shit._

“You look like crap,” Fusco informs him, putting his shoulder under Reese’s arm before the former operative – and formerly believed dead partner – can protest. On their way to the dingy bachelor apartment, Fusco does what he does best: fuss and grumble.

“You should have come to me sooner, you muppet,” he admonishes his friend as they slowly walk the last block to Lionel’s apartment building.

“I didn’t want to scare your son,” John answers quietly, apologetically. Fusco huffs, but he can’t disagree that Lee has been through enough already because of his job(s), without watching his dad tend to someone who, by all means and accounts, should be dead and buried. 

“Besides, Lionel,” Reese continues, sending a jolt of… _Something_ down Fusco’s spine. He hadn’t realised – hadn’t _allowed_ himself to realize – how much he had missed the way Tall, Dark and Suicidal said his name. Nobody had ever put so much tenderness in those three syllables before. “I wasn’t sure how many operatives there were left…” He shifts his weight on Lionel’s frame, causing the shorter man to stop.

“You okay?” the detective currently acting as a crutch asks.

“Fine,” John hisses through gritted teeth and they resume their progress. “I didn’t- I didn’t want to lead any of them back to you, you know. Those two were the last ones,” he adds almost as an afterthought.

His worry is touching, but Fusco still doesn’t like it. “That’s great,” he grumbles, the strain making him short of breath. He really needs to work out more. “But you’re useless when you’re like this. I know Glasses has the brains, but I didn’t realize you were a complete idiot!”

John giggles a little maniacally at that statement. They enter the building. 

“Friends who drink too much are a pain sometimes, aren’t they?” Fusco offers the night guard with a wink and a smile, in no mood to explain why he’s dragging along a semi-conscious grown-ass man. The guard nods and pushes the elevator-button for him. Lionel likes the guy – Carl – he’s quiet and discreet, but strikes an impressive figure, something that’s very useful in this part of town. 

The cop only just manages to close the door behind them and usher John into the living room before the wounded man finally collapses onto the rug. Fusco sighs and walks over to the couch to retrieve a cushion and the plaid thrown causally over the back. Reese is heavier than he looks and in his current state, rest goes above comfort anyway. He checks his friend for wounds or bleeding – none recent – covers him up and sits down on the couch, keeping watch over his unexpected guest with baseball muted on TV.


	2. Chapter 2

John wakes up slowly, his body and mind letting go of the dream state reluctantly, too sated with sleep, but deprived of rest to move. This could be a bad hang-over, but he’s never felt _actually_ physically broken after a night out, not even on the frequent occasions when a bar crawl turned into a bar brawl. Then Reese realises that he’s lying on a too-thin-to-be-comfortable-to-the-human-sleeping-on-it rug in someone’s living room. His eyes have trouble focusing, but he can still make out a short bulk of a man snoring on the couch, sitting upright, head lolling to one side and something – probably the TV-remote - balancing on his knee. _Lionel._ A small burst of anger flares through his chest at the indignity and ache his position is causing him, but he can’t bring himself to stay mad when Detective Fusco is sleeping like a very big and loud baby – probably drooling, as well. Besides, considering his past “partnerships”, he knows he’s really lucky to even be inside Fusco’s apartment. Especially since the man actually dragged him all the way. A warmth nestles inside John’s stomach at the recollection, but thinking makes his head hurt, so he stops doing that and just lies there, listening to his partner’s – his _friend’s_ \- breathing. He falls asleep again, eventually.


	3. Chapter 3

To say that Fusco has just had the best dream ever is an understatement. The details become fuzzy and slip away through the shimmering channels of conscious thought even before he is fully sentient, but the warm feeling inside lingers. He smacks his lips contentedly, yawns and stretches. Without opening his eyes Lionel knows he’s fallen asleep in front of the TV again, and _you stupid idiot, Fusco, you’re getting too old for this shit, who’s gonna take care of your broken back when push really comes to shove at work?_ Reprimanding himself feels nice sometimes, less and less people do it for him. Mostly because they’re dead. Even Tall, Dark and Ridiculously Sexy Covered in Blood has gone all mushy around the edges and- 

_Reese._ His eyes fly open in alarm. Cop-instincts take over when Lionel registers the empty rug, cushion and plaid returned neatly to the other arm-rest of the couch. He is on his feet, ignoring his full bladder and wiping the drool off his chin almost in an afterthought as he courses through the small apartment, ripping open the bathroom door, then the door to Lee’s room _(stupid, Fusco, he’d never go in there!),_ panic rising along his spinal cord like the steam in a geyser, threatening to burst forth in sound, until he stops so hard in his tracks that he almost falls on his face. He’s standing in the middle of the kitchen, watching John hum quietly to himself as he flips over a pancake. Next to him on the counter top – almost never used, unless it’s a “special” occasion – stands a large plate with layers and layers of steaming pancakes, instantly filling Fusco’s nostrils with the delicious smell of _lovingly prepared flatbreads of happiness._ He will deny to his grave that such ridiculous words ever collided in his brain.

Reese lets the last pancake slide out of the frying pan on top of the others and turns around, muscles visibly stiffening with the effort. He stops humming when he sees that he’s got company, but instead of an annoyed or embarrassed scowl, he offers his host a real, toothy smile and puts the plate down on the table between them. 

“Good morning, Lionel,” he says, voice a little gruffer than usual. 

The sound of his name brings the detective out of his stupor long enough to stammer, “W-what are you doing? I mean-” He makes a forlorn gesture with his arms, realises his mouth is still hanging open, but is too busy projecting a pathetic attempt at a very sarcastic _“Yes, I know what pancakes look like, but why the hell are you making them here, in my kitchen, when you should be on your back, resting, and letting me take care of you. Which, by the by, you should have come for months ago.”_

All that comes out, however, is, “I don’t have flour or eggs in the house.” _Pathetic._ Reese cocks his head a little, smile widening as he enjoys Fusco’s confusion – probably even more than he’s going to enjoy the delicious food-stuff he’s just made.

“Luckily, the grocery shop around the corner does,” John cheerily replies, entirely too smug, considering his injuries. Then he adds, “You _do_ know that’s where you can get food, right? It doesn’t always just magically appear in take-away boxes.”

Lionel flops down in a chair and scowls weakly, only now realising that he’s still wearing a very crumpled suit and remembering that he needs a piss stat. Reese has got a point, though. It wouldn’t do to survive all of the crap they’ve just survived and then drop dead of a massive coronary six months later. And Shaw wasn’t entirely wrong when she suggested all he did all day was eat donuts and shoot at card-board cut-outs. Even his inherent physical strength and long years of boxing couldn’t really weigh up against complete lack of stamina nowadays.

He shakes his head and stands, avoiding John’s worried gaze, mumbles, “Gotta piss” and walks towards the bathroom slowly. He’s coming down hard from the earlier adrenaline-rush and needs a second to compose himself and splash some cold water on his face. Maybe even brush his teeth, if he’s feeling particularly adventurous. He doesn’t dawdle, however, the promise of pancakes too powerful to worry about awkward conversations.

When he comes back to the kitchen, Reese is watching his every move with all but baited breath, and Fusco really really doesn’t want to think about why that might be. He sits down again, accepts the finest bottle of maple syrup their supermarket has to offer and digs in. John follows. _Thank fuck,_ Fusco thinks, _we were both brought up not to talk while eating._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fixed the glitch in chapter 3, sorry about that!  
> Take care, lovelies!

John watches Fusco from under his eyelashes, noticing the incremental unclenching of his partner-and-breakfast-buddy’s shoulders as carbohydrates and saturated fat replenish the man’s energy reserves. He can see how big a toll the emotional roller-coaster of the past months has taken on the detective – Lionel is not really hard to read. The Man in the Suit would have liked to leave the man alone to heal in peace, but a small, selfish part of John’s being couldn’t resist the pull this little barrel of dynamite had on him, so it had only been logical to reveal his presence and accept Fusco’s grumbling hospitality. Yet, now, he was unsure how to proceed.

Chewing mechanically, John catalogued his options, feeling lucid and safe enough for the first time since being shot and blown up on an unnamed roof to do so. Here is what he knew. While they would always be in some danger or other because of their pasts, choices of work and charming personalities, it could never measure up to the peril they were in before Samaritan was neutralised. However. The - at times overwhelming – protective instincts Reese felt towards “his guy” hadn’t lessened. Lionel had done really well. Become a better man that John would think him capable of becoming after sinking lower than the gutter. Definitely a better man than he himself had ever been. And then there was what little was left of Fusco’s family to consider. His son, the one constant centre of his existence. His ex-wife, with whom he had finally established some kind of kinship, if only for the sake of their boy. The few friends who were good cops and good people. Even now, John felt loath to endanger all that. He had given up on normalcy a long time ago, but that didn’t mean everybody else had to. 

And then there was him. He couldn’t for the life of him imagine settling into any kind of ordinary, white-picket-fenced, constant-job-and-good-pay existence. It would have him climb the walls and shooting people in the head for the sake of it – or looking for distraction in the bottle. Both not really agreeable outcomes.

“… So really, what would the point be. Also, I impregnated a 15-year-old girl and now her father is threatening me to marry her, wanna help me out here?”

John slowly blinked his way out of his reverie and let his eyes focus on Fusco.

“What?” The words still didn’t seem to register completely.

Lionel barked out a laughter and slammed his fist onto the table in mirth. 

“Welcome back to Earth, pardner… You were _out_ of it!”

John’s eyes narrowed and he glared at the other man, now so comfortable around him he would openly laugh at the not-so-former assassin. That only encouraged undignified guffawing. Fusco wiped the tears from his eyes and pushed the large cup of coffee he had made for Reese his way.

“You think too-” he hiccuped. “Too loudly,” Lionel teased.

“Listen, Lionel, I am very grateful that-”

“Shaw has been getting numbers,” Fusco deadpanned. 

John blinked. Then he blinked again. And again. Finally, Lionel took pity on him.

“Don’t worry, the other guy is probably not in the loop, either.” He jabbed his thumb towards the card on the fridge. Reese nodded. He saw. He realised now that he was still doing a very undignified impression of a gold-fish and closed his mouth. Then he took the mug and downed it in one go, barely registering the scalding beverage making its way down his throat.

Fusco sighed and smiled a little, then got up and put the dishes in the sink. John felt a reassuring, meaty hand on his shoulder. He didn’t flinch.

“Come on. You need a shower,” Lionel said quietly. “And I need to check your injuries. After that, you’re going to have more sleep and we can always talk about the job later.”

Reese got up and took his partner’s – his _friend’s_ \- outstretched hand. _It’s nice to let someone else take care of me once in a while,_ he thought idly as he followed Fusco towards the bathroom. Even if – or maybe especially because – that someone has gotten the drop on him. Something that hasn’t happened in a long, _long_ time.


	5. Chapter 5

Fusco called Shaw while Reese was taking a shower.

“Lionel, now is not a good-”

“John is back.”

The line stayed quiet for a split second, then, “Good.” Lionel heard rustling on the other side of the line. “Is he hurt?” Sameen continued in the same calm tone. Fusco knew what was underneath.

“Shot up pretty badly.”

The rustling turned into the fast click-and-slide of the disassembly of a sniper riffle. “20 minutes,” Shaw bit.

18 minutes and 30 seconds later, Fusco opened the door to very insistent ringing. Shaw gave him her usual smile – the real one - and walked towards the living room, where John was sitting on the couch, wearing Fusco’s best boxers and wrapped up in a blanket and a plaid. Despite the pretty high temperature in the flat, big shivers raked his body. He still found it in himself to smirk weakly at the newcomer. Sameen didn’t reciprocate, brilliant mind no doubt already taking in his elevated temperature, the stiffness in his muscles and joints, the dark circles around his eyes. 

“Lionel, hot water,” she barked, everything else she needed in her bag.

Fusco put the kettle on and went to search for a bowl. He found one under the sink.

“You wouldn’t happen to have an anaesthetic with you, would you?” he shouted towards the living room as he spotted a bottle in the same cupboard.

“No such luck,” Shaw answered, “Was in a hurry.”

Fusco walked towards the living room and handed John the only bottle of Jim Beam he still kept in the house. Reese opened it with shaking hands, took a few big swigs, then offered it to Sameen.

“Maybe later,” she said. Lionel took the bottle from John then.

“Don’t mind if I do,” he grumbled, trying to hide his growing worry behind a big gulp. He let Reese drink some more, then put the booze out of reach. The patient’s eyes were pleasantly glazed over when Shaw put on medical gloves and started unwrapping the blankets, surgical needle and thread in one hand, a pair of large tweezers in the other. Fusco suddenly remembered he had some laundry to do.

***

By the time Fusco came back into the living room, Shaw was cocooning John in the blankets again, coffee table overflowing with bloody gauzes. Reese smiled at Lionel, more than half-faint with pain and fatigue. Shaw grabbed the bottle and downed it in one go, letting out a pleased sigh before she put it down and sat back against the couch. Fusco went into the kitchen to get a bin-bag.

Both of his guests were dozing by the time he was finished clearing and wiping down the table.

“Who’s hungry?” Fusco asked quietly.

“Large pizza with extra pepperoni and cheese.” Shaw didn’t even open her eyes.

Lionel smirked and looked over at Reese, but the patient was not responding.

“Same for him, he’ll be hungry later,” Sameen instructed, stretched out her legs in front of her, leaned her head against John’s knees and went back to sleep.

Fusco decided to walk to the pizza-place – he needed a breather, anyway.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angst. Seriously. Beware of the angst.

_Blood. Black and hard, like a rock of granite. Ice. Suffocating. Burning white and scorching cold. Everywhere._

_He cannot move, cannot talk, cannot think as uneasiness turns into dread turns into terror, enveloping his body and mind in a dense haze, pinning him down with its weight, making him survey the scene before him in wordless panic._

_They are not dead. No, no such mercy for his loved ones. They are all writhing in eternal pain, tortured over and over by invisible fiends, stripped of flesh and humanity until nothing rests but skulls, strewn about the floor, still-intact eyes projecting their abhorrence deep into his soul. He tries to focus on their colour. Most of them are brown: Jessica, Carter, Shaw, R00t, Zoe, Kara… Even Bear is there, tongue lolling in his toothy muzzle. Less blue: Finch, Fusco. One green: Iris. Behind those, neatly in a row, sit the skinless faces of their children, partners, parents, close friends._

_Further away, but still painfully clear to see, are the people he saved, the people he couldn’t save, the people who helped him and those he helped. His victims. He wishes desperately that he could reduce them all to numbers, faceless and flat, but he cannot. He tastes each of their names on his ashen tongue._

_This is his punishment, he realises. Watching helplessly as everybody he has ever come in contact with perishes slowly. The smell of decaying flesh is unbearable. He is directly responsible for this, and now, it’s finally his turn._

_Clammy hands grasp at his face as the scene in front of his aching eyes dissolves into dust and pain. He can finally move his lips. He screams, and screams, and screams._

John tries to fight his way out of the nightmare, but finds himself pinned down by the shoulders.

“Shhhh, settle down,” a familiar voice coos. He gives into the calming tone and relaxes. The hands relocate to his forehead and he feels the clamminess return – but it is only a wet cloth.

“It was only a nightmare,” Fusco - _Lionel_ \- continues, cool hands stroking his cheeks and shoulders until Reese allows himself to go completely boneless. “Just… A nightmare.” He wants to drown in the soft tones of his friend’s voice, let the cadence of his words carry him away to a future he knows he can never have. _They_ can never have. The thought makes him a little sad and he lets an unguarded tear slip, but the hands are still on him, reassuring and tender.

“Go back to sleep, John. There’ll be cold pizza waiting for you when you wake up.”

Reese smiles in the general direction of his benefactor and sighs. He thinks that the promise of cold pizza is enticing enough to brave possible new nightmares. That, and the gentle fingers which don’t leave his skin for even a moment, tethering his feverish mind.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life prevented me from updating sooner, but have some disgusting fluff by way of apology. Take it. Seriously. It makes me sick xD  
> ;)  
> EDIT: Forgot to add, re-watching this video https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AKoEQoFDT-w made me remember how really feline John is, so there. Shush.

Every day, Detective Fusco walks home from work, and every day, he expects to come back to an empty apartment. But every day, the sinking feeling in his stomach is replaced with joy when he opens the door and finds the dingy flat lit and the smell of some outlandish dish – never the same twice – gently drifting his way. 

“Honey, I’m home!” he shouts jokingly, locks the door behind him and proceeds to divest himself of his coat, jacket, service weapon and shoes. Especially shoes. John had started displaying some light OCD – presumably because he hasn’t been able to shoot anyone in the knee for ages – and there has already been an incident of Muddy Footprints. They don’t talk about it.

“Wash up, dinner is almost ready,” comes the familiar reply in that wonderful husky voice. Fusco can already feel his tense shoulders relax at the sound of it. He washes his hands and face – days at the precinct are long and nobody takes the time to dust off… Well, anything, really.

Only when he steps into the kitchen does John turn around to look at him, catalogue the day’s proceedings by the look on his face and, for all he knows and cares, the second lower crease on his left trouser leg – and greets him.

“Hello, Lionel.” 

He cannot believe he ever hated hearing his name fall from those gorgeous- Ehm, lips. Then John smiles and it’s doing that thing to Fusco’s knees and stomach where he has to sit down and breathe very deeply lest he swoons like a schoolgirl. He’s worried Reese might be onto him, but he can’t really control his body’s responses to his friendly neighbourhood assassin.

It’s a comfortable and easy companionship they’ve settled into in the past few weeks. John cooks, shops for groceries and cleans the house, occasionally nagging Lionel about that stupid habit of throwing his socks at the laundry basket and missing every time. Fusco goes to work, brings home money and interesting cases and washes the dishes while John hangs around the kitchen and pointedly _doesn’t_ throw glances at his friend’s arse. The only time Reese left was when Lee came to visit for the weekend, and as much as he loves spending time with his son, the detective couldn’t quite shake the feeling of something missing. 

They don’t acknowledge John’s much better physical state – definitely well enough to shoot and protect, if not run and jump yet – nor the fact that even in the small flat, they still seem to gravitate closer towards each other, ending up more often than not sharing Fusco’s small bed at night. John wouldn’t ever even consider taking Lee’s room, and the last time Lionel slept on the couch, he couldn’t bend over for three days. There are a lot of things they don’t acknowledge, but surely, they have deserved some peace after everything?

Tonight, however, is going to be different. Lionel can’t quite put his finger on how, though. Maybe it’s the new spices John put in the couscous, or maybe it’s the more-frequent-than-usual veiled glances his flatmate is sending his way, but Fusco is feeling rather hot. He dares not look up from his plate, worried he’s going to make a fool of himself if he gives himself the chance to peruse the depths of John’s ever-changing eyes. They’re blue, yes, but never the same blue. Sometimes, they’re cold and hard, like a clump of murky ice. Other times, they resemble a stormy sea, threatening to drag anyone who’s too close to the man down with him. 

But Lionel’s favourite colour is the mossy green John’s eyes turn when he’s completely relaxed and at peace. So far, he has been privy to that side of Reese once. The man was still nursing his wounds then and got too tired to sit up during Terminator (at least, that’s what Fusco told himself), which meant that Lionel ended up with a lap full of salt-and-pepper. He held his hand up to shield John’s eyes from the sharp light of the lamp and that’s when he noticed that lovely colour, right before his friend’s eyes slipped shut and his mouth quirked up in a lazy smile. It hadn’t happened again since, but Fusco liked to think that that’s what Reese’s eyes always looked like when he fell asleep with his head on the detective’s broad shoulder – or his arm around the detective’s broad waist. 

John’s fork clattered to the floor, violently yanking Lionel out of his reverie. He realised that they had both finished eating some time ago. Without looking at his companion, he got up, gathered the dishes and carried them to the sink. 

“We can do those later,” John remarked. His hand was soft but insistent on Lionel’s elbow, even though he must have known that he had already won – a long, long time ago. 

One of Fusco’s annoying habits was to always sit on the middle cushion on the couch – forcing any guests he ever had to sit very close to him if they wanted to see the TV. With Lee, that usually led to a tickle-war. The few times that Shaw had stayed long enough to sit down, she either perched on the arm-rest, or sat on the floor – he didn’t mind, everybody liked some personal space now and then. John, on the other hand, just moulded himself into whatever space was available to him, making Fusco deliberately move closer to see how far he could push Reese into the couch until the other man got uncomfortable. Turned out, pretty far – he got uncomfortable first. 

Today, however, Lionel’s new roommate made a point of sitting as near to his host as he could, shivering theatrically until Fusco offered him the plaid. He knew John couldn’t possibly be cold – he was as warm-blooded as they came – but he was curious to see where this elaborate display was going. As soon as he had wrapped the scary-assassin-turned-meek-housewife (or as meek as someone with John’s past could ever be, really), John proceeded to snuggle inside the blanket, close his eyes in contentment and purr. Lionel smirked and turned back to face the TV when the realisation of what had just occurred made him almost whiplash his head back.

“Did you just… Purr?” he asked incredulously.

“No,” Reese countered, but the playful glimmer in his eyes and the matching lazy cat-smile told Fusco differently. The hard-core (dirty) cop suddenly felt the strong desire to grab the other man and snuggle him to death (probably not literally), but was deterred by the knowledge that, at any given time, even in the relative safety of Fusco’s home, John was hiding at least one knife on his body. So he bumped his friend’s shoulder. Reese retaliated by moving closer and claiming his shoulder as a pillow. 

They had done this countless times before, yet today felt different. Electricity was running up and down Lionel’s body, making it very hard to concentrate on the Doctor Who re-run – luckily, not one of his favourite episodes. To finish off the feline impression, John rubbed his cheek on his make-shift headrest, but even that felt weirdly erotic, sending a jolt of… _Something_ towards Fusco’s groin. He manged to stop himself from groaning, but the deadly proximity of his partner’s body-heat made it very necessary to fold his hands over his lap. _Like a goddamn teenager,_ he chided himself silently, but he couldn’t deny the thrill of this… Whatever was going on right now.

“Lionel.” Hot breath ghosted over his sensitive earlobe, tickling his antihelix in the most deliciously tortuous way possible. His trousers were too tight and he desperately wanted to spread his legs and _oh God, there were lips and teeth nipping at his jawline and-_

Fusco’s phone rang. Both men froze. Then it rang again. Lionel scrambled up to get it from his jacket pocket, erection dying swiftly. Ending the call, he put the phone in his trouser pocket and padded back to the couch, thinking of ways to get the action back on track. John was standing next to the couch in the suit he had brought with him the week before, face impassive.

“Trouble?” he asked evenly.

“No, just Noble keeping me updated on the case we’re wo-ooohw, what’s going on?”

Lionel’s lust-soaked and work-tired brain started working again. John was wearing a suit. A _Suit._ His hand was clenching a little too tight around his mobile phone, ear twitching a little, unused to the comm. The only reminder of their previous activities was his somewhat tousled hair, which would be back in perfect model once he got to a mirror.

“Shaw texted. She has a new number,” he stated, biting off every syllable like it pained him to speak.

Fusco kept staring at his companion, Big Grumpy Detective Frown taking hold. John’s eyelids drooped incrementally.

“I have to go help.”

For all his cloak-and-dagger, the detective had found John’s body-language easier to read than most. Especially since his training had included withstanding interrogation. Lionel took in the lowered eyelids _(hide dilating pupils),_ the defensive stance _(incrementally hunched shoulders, protecting the soft middle-section from sudden attacks) _, the forced calm of his mouth and breathing… And there it was. The shocking realisation that Reese was doing something he hadn’t done in a relatively long time – telling Fusco a blatant lie.__

__Lionel felt his own shoulders droop and he nodded, hesitantly. Without a goodbye, his best friend and unexpected (and unexpectedly great) flatmate was gone. The click of the door reverberated through the empty apartment. Dishes. Fusco had dishes to do._ _


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a little explanation of last chapter's crack, check the edited notes there.  
> And here. Have some more angst. Because why not? ^^

“He’s tried calling again,” Shaw points out, adjusting her night-goggles. 

John sighs quietly, but keeps his eyes on the number through the binoculars, gun at the ready. 

“You know he won’t stop,” she adds. Her sniper-riffle lets off a few shots, enough to spook the would-be assassins. The number runs away, but at least he’s safe for now.

“You can’t avoid him forever.”

“Enough,” Reese bites. Shaw doesn’t flinch, but she doesn’t try to talk again, either. He wants to punch her. Wants to tear and break something inside every single living person in his sight. Instead, he grits his teeth and pushes the muzzle of his recently-used gun into his thigh, searing his flesh through the camouflage fabric. Sameen notices – she always does – but says nothing. She doesn’t need to.

***

John is restless. Unfocused. Too violent or too kind – never appropriately so. When they get two numbers, he almost lets the victim die. The perpetrator manages to escape. He tracks her down. Shaw has to knock him out to stop him from choking the ex-Marine to death. She knows what might happen if she lets him.

They have a long talk. There are apologies, booze and a friendly fight. The next job goes flawlessly. As does the one after that.

***

It’s the same dream – the same nightmare – over and over again, for a week now. Reese wakes up sweating and panting, the smell of Fusco’s blood and the sound of his death-gurgle fresh on his senses. He grabs his burner phone blindly, punches in the number and waits. Beep. Beep. Beep. Click. Voicemail. He presses the little red button too forcefully. Gets up. Paces the room for two minutes, trying to regain some control over his breath and emotions. He tries calling again. Still no answer. And again. Panic is spreading itself through his blood-stream like a fast-acting poison, shutting his brain’s higher functions down. He can not see or hear anything clearly, blood pounding deafeningly and vision blurring. His upper lip is sweating.

John gets dressed blindly, grabs his phone and gun, carkeys already in his pocket. He tries calling again on his way. It’s very unlike Fusco not to pick up. Aside from his job, working odd hours in homicide, Reese has diligently trained him, like a good dog, to answer his master’s command. He would be smirking at this simile, but all his memory produces is the sight of Buster, the family dog. After his father’s burial, Buster found his way to the cemetery and never left the grave. For days, he lay there, too weak and emaciated to even lift up his head, yet refusing to eat or drink anything they gave him. He died on the fourth day. They never got another dog.

It’s a short ride to Lionel’s apartment, but it seems like ages to Reese’s feverish brain. He tries to push the nightmarish images away, but they just get replaced with even more gruesome fantasies. Something terrible must have happened to his partner, he can feel it.

He runs up to the apartment, too pumped and anxious to wait for the elevator. Everything is quiet in the hall-way. John decides against pushing the doorbell, lets himself into the apartment with his key instead. It’s dark, but he can find his way around the place blindfolded and bound by wrists and ankles. The panic gives way a little as training kicks in, but the little hairs on the back of his neck still stand up. Everything is too quiet. There’s no snoring coming from behind the closed bedroom door, not a whisper of life anywhere. He’s come too late.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long overdue continuation - so sorry!

Lionel is very much sleep-deprived, but even that state doesn’t deter him from waking up at the first sign of trouble. He can’t really put his finger on what it was, exactly, that had alerted him. His groggy brain still tries to solve the mystery while he gets out of bed and pads to the door of his bedroom in the dark. Probably the fact that the landing opposite his flat is never this noisy at night. The menacing sounds are already outside his front door. His gun is in the hall, and damn it, there is no way he’ll get to it before the intruders do. He grabs the first thing he can find by touch – the bedside lamp his ex-mother-in-law had given him. _Good,_ he thinks, _I’ve always hated that thing._

Not ten seconds later, his front door opens with a bang, then complete silence. Ginger footsteps approach his room. Fusco holds his breath, trying to gauge the number of intruders and their approximate positions. Trapped in his own bedroom, holding a fuck-ugly lamp by its neck, Lionel suddenly feels very silly. So he flings open the door and charges. His make-shift weapon is wrenched from his hands even before he can spot his assailant (he feels some satisfaction when he hears the thing shatter), but when he finds himself pinned to the floor, a sharp bottom squashing his chest and two expert hands squeezing his lights out via his throat, he can tell with some modicum of certainty who his nightly visitor is. 

“Reese,” he wheezes. “Get off me, you maniac!”

And so he does. Swiftly and quietly, very much like a big cat, John gets up. A second later, Lionel is being yanked up by both hands like he weighs nothing (he very very much doesn’t). He cannot discern his friend’s facial expression by the dim light from the landing, but the tense way the man drags – no, _forces _\- him into a hug speaks volumes. Then John leans back and shakes Fusco a few times like one does a puppy who’d just pooped on the carpet.__

__“Why didn’t you pick up your phone?” he demands, voice shrill, and the waves of anger and concern coming off him would have meant, in earlier times, that Lionel was going to be manhandled within an inch of his life. Now, Reese restraints himself, but his composure is slipping with dangerous velocity. The light finally catches his eyes and the fear within them is the ugliest, scariest thing Fusco has ever seen._ _

__“I’ve just worked a graveyard shift for a week, you moron, which you would know if you had answered my calls in the first place. I turned off my phone to get some _sleep.”_ He tries to keep his voice gruff and even, but his hands betray his own worry, winding themselves around John’s waist._ _

__All the muscles in the taller man’s torso seem to relax at once, and he drapes himself over Lionel’s frame, seemingly unable to stay upright._ _

__“I’m sorry, Lionel, I’m so sorry… I thought I’d lost you. I thought you were dead and I couldn’t live with myself if you were dead and…” He’s babbling now and Fusco hugs him tighter, not yet willing (nor able) to stop the flow of words he had always wanted to hear..._ _

__But not like this, he suddenly realises. Not when the man uttering them is seconds away from some kind of violent mental breakdown. Lionel disentangles himself for a moment and grabs John’s face. It’s wet. It takes the exhausted Detective a few seconds to realise that John is _crying_ and he has no idea what to do with that information, so he stands up on his tiptoes and stems the flow of that beautiful – now broken - voice the only way he can think of. With his mouth. He hears Reese’s sharp inhale, but before he can even contemplate getting out of the way of a very irate assassin, his kiss is answered with remarkable vigour. They both taste like halitosis and spent adrenaline, but neither man cares as they make their way blindly back into Lionel’s room. _ _

__Fusco finds himself on his back with Reese on top of him yet again, but this time they’re on his bed and John’s hands are using a very different technique to take his breath away._ _

__“Front door,” the operative suddenly remembers._ _

__Before Lionel can even hear the click of the lock, Reese is back, blanketing his body, seeking friction, giving and taking as much as he can. Fusco tries to keep up, but before long, he is floating on a wave of pleasure, spurred on by the madman playing him like a goddamn fiddle. He wouldn’t have it any other way._ _


End file.
